Lucy took a shuddering breath and tried to pull herself together for the third or fourth time that day.
“It’s okay. You’ll get there. Just keep saving your pennies.”
She shook her head. “Pennies aren’t going to be enough.”
“Welcome to America,” Theresa said. “They tell us taking care of children is the most important job you can do, and then they pay us like it’s the least important. You know I’d give you the money if I had it to give.”
“It’s okay. Don’t worry about it. I’ll just kill myself later.”
“Oh no. You keep that nasty talk out of your mouth.”
“Sorry. Bad day.”
Lucy stepped away from her, picked up the cleaning spray and the rag for the marker boards.
“Lucy?” Theresa stood by her and stared at her. Lucy couldn’t meet her eyes. “Come on, talk to me.”
“It’s not going to happen.”
Theresa gasped softly. “Baby girl, no…”
“I tried everything. The social worker flat out told me today it’s just not possible for me to foster Christopher, and that it was time to tell him.”
“What does she know? She doesn’t know you like I know you.”
“She’s right. He deserves better.”
“Better? What’s better than the best? And you are the best for him. You are.” Theresa poked her gently in the shoulder.
Lucy took a deep breath and forced herself to focus on the marker boards. She wiped them down until they were gleaming white. “What do I know about being a mother? I had terrible parents. I date shitty guys—”
“Sean? Is this about Sean? Because if it is, I don’t care if you’re twenty-six years old, I’ll turn you over my knee right here.”
Lucy laughed softly, miserably, tiredly. “It’s not about Sean. Although he was a dick.”
“World-class dick,” Theresa said. “Broke all the dick records.”
“It’s about reality. And the reality is, it’s never going to happen.”
Theresa exhaled heavily. “I hate reality.”
“I know. I know,” Lucy said, “but for Christopher’s sake—”
“For his sake, do not give up on him.” Theresa took her by the shoulders and gently shook her. “I’ve been a teacher almost twenty years. I’ve met all the bad parents you’d ever want to meet. Parents who buy themselves new clothes and let their kids go to school in shoes three sizes too small. Parents who spank a five-year-old for dropping his glass of milk. Parents who don’t give their kids baths for weeks or wash their clothes. Parents who drive drunk to school with their kids in the front seat with no seat belt on. And those aren’t even the worst ones, Lucy, and you know it.”
“I know, I do. Some of them make my parents look like saints. Well, not really but it could have been worse.” She sat on one of the small round tables. “Mrs. Costa pretty much patted me on the head, told me that it takes a village to raise a child, and said I should call my sister to ask for help.”
“She’s not wrong about needing a village. Why not call her?”
“What?” Lucy boggled at her.
Theresa waved her hand. “I hated my sister growing up too. We could’ve made wigs out of the hair we pulled out of each other’s heads. We’d kill for each other now. I wouldn’t let her borrow my favorite jacket, but I’d shiv anyone who roughed her up. I’d call her if it was me in your shoes. Baby girl, the worse she can do is hang up on you.”
“No.” Lucy said it emphatically. Then for good measure said it again. “No.”
“Fine, fine.” Theresa raised her arms and surrendered. “But at least don’t tell Christopher today. Take a little time. Think it over. Okay?”
Lucy blinked back tears. “Nothing’s going to change in a week.”
Theresa stood up straight and pointed her finger at Lucy’s chest. “No? Let me tell you, my cousin JoJo—he is the biggest man-whore on the planet, so help me God if I’m lying—was two days from losing his house to the bank when his girlfriend set his bed on fire for cheating on her with her sister. Whole place burned to the ground in an hour,” she said with relish. “Huge insurance settlement. Now he’s living in Miami in a condo with two girls half his age.”
Lucy met her eyes. “Very inspiring and uplifting story. Thank you. You should give TED Talks.”
“One week. Even one day, okay? Just not today. Don’t ever break a heart on a Friday. Ruins the whole weekend.”
“I got him some toy sharks to soften the blow.”
“Save the sharks. And don’t tell him yet.”
Laughing for the first time all day, Lucy said, “Yes, ma’am.”
Theresa left for a planning committee meeting. Alone in the empty room, Lucy got out her phone and pulled up Google. Just out of curiosity, she typed in “Angela Victoria Hart,” then “Angela Hart,” and “Angie Hart Portland Maine.”
Didn’t take Lucy long to find her. Angie Hart of Portland, Maine, age thirty-one, was a top-tier agent at Weatherby’s International Realty. Lucy clicked on her photo and saw her sister all grown up. Pretty, not beautiful. But she had perfect white teeth and flawless makeup, and she wore a gray skirt suit and jacket that probably cost more than Lucy’s rent. According to the company’s website, Angie had just sold a two-million-dollar property. Just to twist the knife, Lucy googled standard commission for real estate agents—3 percent. Three percent of two million was sixty thousand dollars.
Right under Angie’s smiling face was all her contact information. Phone number and email.
Sixty thousand dollars? For one single sale?
Lucy’s finger hovered over the phone number. Wouldn’t kill her to try a text message?
Her heart raced at the thought of it. She began to sweat. What would she even say? Thanks for telling me Mom and Dad never wanted me? Thanks for reminding me I was unloved and unlovable? Thanks for making me a stranger in my own home? Oh, by the way, can I borrow some money?
No, she would say nothing, because there was nothing to say.
Lucy tossed her phone back in her bag. The battery was nearly dead anyway.
* * *
—
By the time Christopher made it to the classroom, Lucy was calm enough to pretend everything was okay.
“Hey, sweetheart,” Lucy said brightly as he came to her for a hug. He leaned into her wearily, but she could tell this was playground tired, not worn-down-by-sadness tired.
“Rough day?” she asked. He looked a little better than yesterday. No more raccoon eyes.
“So…much…math,” he said with a groan. He threw his backpack on a table and sank down into a chair with an exaggerated flop of his skinny arms.
“Do you have a lot of math homework?” she asked as she did her daily dive into his shoes to find his socks. She was going to have to start duct-taping his socks around his ankles.
“Nah, got that done.” He pulled his fingers through his hair until his sweaty locks stuck out like Einstein’s. “But my brain is fried.”
“I did see the smoke coming out of your ears. Wait until you start multiplication tables.” Lucy sat in the tiny chair across from him. “What other homework do you have?”